


don't say 'no, i'm no good for you'

by cicadas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 11:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: Even Peter - 16, never had a drink - knows there's no dignity in this.





	don't say 'no, i'm no good for you'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadonsundays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadonsundays/gifts).



> title: (nearly) billie eilish  
> the characters in this story are always seen inebriated. if this makes you uncomfortable please tread lightly.

Peter never had a little brother. Or sister.

He didn't have experience with younger siblings. Changing them when his mom was busy, stealing their toys, teaching them curse words.

He doesn't know how to put someone to bed that isn't himself.

It's why carrying Mr. Stark through his penthouse-size bedroom seems like an impossible task. Does he take his shoes off, or leave them? Where would he put them if he did? There are no closets or shoe racks around, only smooth walls and tall windows.

Stark stirs in his sleep.

Something akin to drool escapes the side of his mouth, and on closer inspection Peter realises it's vomit.

"Ah, crap, Mr. Stark, let's get you to a bathroom," He murmurs, heaving the man's arm around his shoulder to drag his feet along the floor, headed to an opening on the far wall he assumes is an ensuite.

He's lucky. Never being one to take the cheap route on anything, the bathroom is filled with small decorative soaps and lotions and hand-towels in three different sizes. Peter sits on the bath and gently leans Stark over the toilet - a new-age looking thing with no cistern or base attaching it to the floor. Peter wonders if it'll fall out of the wall when people sit on it, then realises that's a stupid thought, and wants to take it back.

He's interrupted by a low groaning sound. Tony hasn't made any move to sit up and throw up properly, and instead stays slumped over the porcelain, neck pressing dangerously on the rim of the bowl.

"Jesus christ, how much did you drink?" Peter says. He doesn't expect an answer. Doesn't get one.

Peter snakes his arm under Stark's chest and pushes him back, using his other hand to cradle his head where it lolls. He's awake, but barely. One of Peter's fingers accidentally pushes into his cheek, and more vomit escapes from between his lips. Tony doesn't react to it at all.

Peter huffs out a breath, trying not to panic at the feel of regurgitated cheese-platter and scotch on his fingers, and takes a horse stance behind Stark, holding his body between his knees so he stays upright. He keeps one hand on his head to keep it from dropping forward onto the toilet bowl, and then swallows his spit before pushing his fingers into Tony's mouth.

The feeling is wet, warm and disgusting.

There are spit-slick chunks between his fingers, so he bends them and scoops to the side to clear out his mouth.

"Come on, Mr. Stark, just throw up," Peter squeezes shakes his head a little, trying to force coherency.

Tony lets out another groan. He sounds like a tired child.

Peter didn't ever think he'd be in this position.

He knees him, presses into his side with his legs, and the pinch of pain must have woken him up just enough to have him coughing, using his own arms - finally - to clutch at the rim as he leans his head completely into the bowl and throws up.

It's not a lot, but Stark retches the whole way through. Every now and then he'll stop to heave shuddering breaths, blow vomit and snot from his nose. Peter unrolls a few layers of toilet paper and dabs at his face to keep him somewhat clean. Somewhat dignified.

But even Peter - 16, never had a drink - knows there's no dignity in this.

 

-

 

Tony wakes up in bed. His covers are tucked in at his waist. There's a glass of water and a box of acetaminophen on the floor beside his bed.

His shoes have been taken off.

 

-

 

 

They're drunk.

Well, Peter assumes he's drunk. He feels floaty and happy and also like he might cry? But it's alright because there's music and he has more alcohol and Mr. Stark seems to be enjoying himself and Peter's company. It's all good.

He knows something bad happened today, but they can forget about that. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. He's okay. He's okay.

He feels kind of sick but he's okay. Maybe he needs another drink. Mr. Stark is pouring one.

There's metal he hasn't heard before playing from the speakers above them, and Tony is banging his head lightly to the music. Peter can't really focus on one note at a time - his senses are going wild with all the input. Things are sharp and out of focus all at once.

"Hey, Mr. Stark?" He finds himself yelling, teetering on his feet, "I need another drink,"

 

Tony looks at him.

He doesn't say 'no, you've had too much'. He doesn't seem to remember Peter is underage, which Peter has neglected to mention the entire night. He doesn't brush off the hands that linger on his arms, shoulders, waist, either.

He likes the attention.

Peter is poured and handed two fingers of scotch in a cold glass, no ice, and he downs it in one go. He barely feels it slide down his throat.

He feels loose. He feels good. Everyone makes mistakes, so this must be how they get over it.

He understands why Mr. Stark drinks so much now. Maybe all he needs is someone to understand him. Peter can be that. He's smart, and a quick learner. He can be good for Mr. Stark, he knows he can.

Peter shows him by taking the bottle and sloppily pouring himself another drink. Most spills onto the work bench, onto his fingers where they're wrapped around the glass. He pays it no mind, and brings the glass to his lips, entirely aware of Mr. Stark watching him.

He hears, "You gonna slow down anytime soon, kid?"

He feels the words in hot breath on his neck.

"Do you want me to, Mr. Stark?" He replies, tongue darting out to lick up spilled liquor on his lips.

 

Maybe Tony didn't know what he meant. Maybe Peter didn't either.

But Mr. Stark says, "No,"

And then he steps forward to push a kiss onto Peter's mouth.

The small, confused noise Peter lets out is lost between their lips. Tony's tongue is rough and hot and kind of bumpy where it pokes against his teeth, scotch-wet lips trying to work his mouth open.

Peter slowly opens his mouth.

He feels a hand come up to cup his cheek, fingers splaying out across his scalp, and there's another hand on his ribs, pressing, squeezing.

He can't hear the music anymore. Can't feel his feet on the ground.

All he can focus on is the tingling sensation on his lips and in his crotch and he likes it but also he's confused as to why this is happening.

He shuts his eyes, and doesn't remember much else.

 

 

-

  

Tony wakes up with Peter in his bed.

They're both clothed, thank God, but the covers are tangled at his feet, and he can't feel a belt around the waist of his pants.

To stave off panic, Tony takes in the sleeping face of the boy beside him (he seems fine, he's sleeping fine, I didn't do anything wrong) and rolls over.

He wakes later that afternoon with his shoes tucked beside the door.

Peter has made up his side of the bed.

 

-

 

"Yeah, Ned, I'm fine. I'm fine, I promise! I'll be in later, just tell them I've got a migraine or something." Peter says.

On the other side of the line, Ned isn't too happy with his answer. He's been distant, and his friend seems to think he's in the middle of a pre-midlife midlife crisis.

_"Alright, dude, but I can't cover for you tomorrow, okay? I've got-"_

"That date with Alice, yeah, you told me about her. Good luck with that by the way,"

 _"Thanks. Well, enjoy your migraine - I've gotta go if I wanna get lunch before I start your shift,"_ Ned says, emphasizing the _your_.

"Thanks, Ned, I really appreciate it. Now go eat,"

_"Cya, Peter."_

 

Peter hangs up the phone and looks around the room. He feels like he's sixteen again.

"Everything okay?"

He doesn't know he got into this situation.

"Yeah, all good. Ned's gonna cover me at work tonight, so I can stay." Peter says.

Things like this don't really just happen, do they? People have to make them happen. Work at it. Organise dates and times and willingly drink, willingly kiss, willingly be in each other's company time and time again.

"Good. I've missed you,"

He's missed him too. But the feeling isn't as intense as he tries to make it.

He looks across at the man sitting on the edge of the ridiculously large bed, and pushes his uncertainty to carelessness, then twists it to lust. He can shut of his brain and just fuck. He doesn't need to think to feel. He does need a drink.

Peter steps forward and places himself in the man's lap, tucking his feet around his back.

"Missed you too, Tony." He says into his ear. He bites at the lobe, sucks on it a little, then lets it out of his lips. "Can we have a drink first? I need one, need to loosen up,"

"Yeah?" Tony groans. He's rutting his hips up into Peter's backside, gripping his knees with strong hands.

Peter can smell the liquor on his breath, so he kisses him, chasing the taste.

He wants to get lost in it.

 

Peter drinks plenty that night. Swallows instead of sips that burn his tongue until it starts to feel good. The tingles of numbness spread from his mouth throughout his whole body, until finally he finds himself wanting to reach out to the body closest to him.

He wants to touch. Feel heat and skin under his fingertips. Wants the scratch of facial hair on his neck as he's bitten.

At some point he loses whether it's the alcohol or the sex that he craves. He wonders whether there's much of a difference anymore.

Tony fucks him hard, and the pleasure melts into pain at the base of his spine. He's on his back, arms stretched out on the bed, loving the feel of the fabric under his fingers. So silky smooth.

Tony's grunting and praising him like he's doing anything other than lying there.

"You're so tight, Pete,"

"Fuck, I love you,"

"Feels so good,"

 

The words blur into one big sentence that clouds around his ears. Peter's own breaths are huffs as the air is pushed out of his lungs over an over, somewhere empty filled deep enough to reach the place that makes him feel good, so good. Deep enough to ache.

At some point Peter thinks he feels tears on his cheeks, which are hot and flushed from the alcohol.

He can't be sure.

He doesn't ever remember the details in the morning.

 

 

 -

 

Tony wakes up more sober than he ever has.

Beside him, Peter is a wreck.

There's a yellow stain where he must have thrown up in the night. Red bruises cover his neck and collarbones where his shirt is pulled down. His hair is matted against his face, drool on his lips and on the pillow in the form of white crust.

He doesn't remember him having that much to drink, but doesn't question Peter's ability to put away a bottle of scotch on his own. More so since he discovered how to really work his metabolism to keep himself in that hazy-drunk state.

Tony rubs a hand over his face, wipes at his mouth, and looks down at his feet.

He sighs. Looks over to Peter - either asleep or actually passed out, Tony can't tell, but he's snoring, so that's a good sign. He leans over and presses a chaste kiss to the boy's forehead, then kicks his legs off the side of the bed to untie the black dress shoes he left on.

 

He eyes the empty bottles on the floor by the wall, and wonders when the tables were turned on him.

 

 -

 

Peter turns 21 on a Friday, and Tony barely sees him the entire night. There are more people at the reception hall than he's seen at one of his own parties in a while, and the music blaring is something decades newer than what he's used to listening to.

He feels out of place, but then- oh, it's Peter. He's trashed, hanging off a girl he's never seen before, slobbering on her shoulder when he tries to talk into her ear.

Tony catches his eye, and Peter gives him a sly smile.

"Heyy, Mr. Stark, how kind of you to visit me here," He says, tripping over the girls heel and almost sending her down to the floor. She shoulders out of his grip and ducks under his arm to get away. Tony doesn't blame her.

"Kid, what do you mean visit, it's your birthday," Tony replies, taking the girl's place and propping Peter upright.

"You never wanna see me unless I'm in your bed, Mr. Stark," He says seriously. His head is turned into Tony's shoulder, eyes drifting in and out of focus like the world is spinning behind him.

"C'mon, Pete, that's not true," he says, "Why don't you come inside with me, we can sit and talk?"

Peter hits him. It's light, on the chest, but Tony takes it as the sign that it is.

"I don't wanna go inside with you! I want to be out here, drink with my friends! These are all people that love me, Tony! They love me and not just 'cause I'm drunk!" He says - shouts. His words are slurred but the meaning is clear.

Aware of the heads turned his way, Tony tries to keep his voice quiet, though he knows he'll have to shout to be heard over the music. He also knows how Peter's senses get when he's drunk - when there's too much input.

"Peter, you know that's not true."

"Is true!"

"Peter-"

"I was drunk that first time, Mr. Stark - fuck, why'm I calling you Mr. Stark now?" Peter says the last part seemingly to himself. He looks up, "But you like that, don't you, Mr. Stark? You've got a thing for me, right?"

"Pete-"

"Do you wanna fuck me, Mr. Stark?" He says, and his hands are working their way up his chest to the collar of his shirt. Tony swallows.

"Jesus christ, Peter, we're outside. There are people here," He protests. It's as if he hasn't spoken at all.

Peter leans forward, moving to kiss him. His mouth is wide open, and barely grazes Tony's lips, instead smearing spit over his cheek and then his ear as Peter trips over nothing, falling into his chest, clutching at Tony's collar.

He brings an arm up to grip at his waist, and the boy goes doll-like. He's like a rag-doll in his arms. He's not asleep - he's humming some fucking metal song - Metallica - and swaying like they're slow dancing and not in the middle of a crowd with multiple onlookers.

Peter spits onto Tony's shirt, and it's tinted brown-yellow.

"Jesus christ, how much did you drink?" Tony says. He doesn't expect an answer. Doesn't get one.

 

 

Peter knows he's fucked.

He doesn't care. He's having fun. There's spit on his chin, he thinks, but that's okay, because there's music and lights and Tony is holding him and he loves him so much!

He feels like crying. It won't matter if he does. He won't remember in the morning anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> sunday, this one's for you. sorry that it turned out kinda dark.


End file.
